


get a little closer, let fold

by arahir



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-17 10:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11849400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arahir/pseuds/arahir
Summary: Shiro and Keith work some stuff out.When he turns around, Shiro has his vestandbelt off. He’s stripped down to bare black body armor, unselfconscious somehow. And why shouldn't he be? Shiro’s always been perfect, at least in this respect, and there’s no version of him that couldn’t steal Keith's breath.But he's made a fatal mistake, he realizes, because he's going to spar withthat, havethatunder his hands, next best to bare skin—or next worst.Too late."Rules?" Shiro eyes him up and down, slowly.





	get a little closer, let fold

**Author's Note:**

> > anonymous said: keith and shiro sparring and way too evenly matched and then it ends up this beautiful dance of death (but not really because they love one another) and then BOOM feelings. maybe. perhaps a lot of pining. 
>> 
>> ashinan said: how about pining shiro, watching Keith grow into his own as a leader and kind of stepping back? Until Keith smacks him and they smooch instead

"We don't have time anymore, do we?" Shiro says.

Keith frowns. "For what?"

"For anything."

Keith waits for him to continue, but he trails off and lets that fill the silence. _We don't have time_.

It's true. A spare hour is rare, and most of them are spent catching up on sleep. A spare afternoon? Rare as a blue moon, and he already knows he's never going to see another one of those—at least, not by Earth standards.

Shiro is staring into the middle distance, lost in his own thoughts again. His hair is growing out, the white bangs hanging into his eyes, and finally he's got back most of the muscle he lost to his time with the Galra. He looks strong—and a little lost. Beautiful, always. So much so that it catches Keith’s breath still, four years in and deep as ever. Deeper, maybe.

It’s been hard lately, between them. They could lead together, he thought, but it’s easier in theory than practice and it’s been weeks since Shiro gave his opinion on anything. Weeks, since he made a bad call in the middle of a dogfight and Keith deferred to him, without question. The Black Lion took a hit that had him KOd to bare earth, and had Shiro avoiding his gaze for two solid days.

Now he can’t shake that persistent sense of loss, like it’s only a matter of time before he's gone again, and Keith’s already braced for that blow. Shiro keeps pulling back and back, from the team, from Voltron, from _him._ It’s an open wound none of them are acknowledging; Keith would do anything to mend it, but he’s got nothing.

"We could hit the training deck?" Keith offers, mostly for the distraction.

Shiro laughs. "We get an afternoon off and you want to go let a robot beat you up?"

"No." Keith smiles. "I thought you and I could go a couple rounds."

They haven't sparred since the Garrison, since before Kerberos. Shiro goes red around the ears, but nods and takes the offered hand.  It's a quiet walk; everyone is in their corner, taking it easy, and it's nice to have some privacy for once.

The deck is predictably empty—Keith’s never actually seen anyone else use it. He pulls off his jacket and pulls back his hair.

When he turns around, Shiro has his vest _and_ belt off. He’s stripped down to bare black body armor, unselfconscious somehow. And why shouldn't he be? Shiro’s always been perfect, at least in this respect, and there’s no version of him that couldn’t steal Keith's breath.

But he's made a fatal mistake, he realizes, because he's going to spar with _that_ , have _that_ under his hands, next best to bare skin—or next worst.

_Too late._

"Rules?" Shiro eyes him up and down, slowly.

Keith shakes his head and pulls the knife off his belt, lets it lengthen and change, bathing them both in white-blue for a moment, like a slow burst of contained lightning. Shiro's dark eyes light up with it, and with something wondrous; it means something to still be able to impress him.

Shiro raises his prosthetic arm, and hesitates.

"You won't hurt me," Keith says.

Shiro doesn't look reassured, but he lets power flow up his arm in circuits of vivid purple. It's not something he shows off most of the time, but it's _hypnotic_.

He's only able to tear his eyes away because Shiro comes at him, hard and fast—and he is fast, ridiculously so. It's all Keith can do to bring his blade up in time. The hit isn't hard; Shiro is pulling his punches, but that's going to change. Keith ducks and rips his blade away, bringing it up to graze Shiro's side in a warning, but Shiro bends away from it and follows him down, reaching for purchase on his leg, on his hip—

Keith dances away and brings the blade down over the back of his neck, ready to pull it back before it risks an actual hit—but again, Shiro is faster.

His arm snaps up, grabs the blade in a shower of sparks that has Keith flinching back, but he can't get distracted because Shiro follows the momentum through with his other hand and god his arms are _long_. He gets a hand behind Keith's thigh— _around_ it—and lifts, like he's going to flip him backward.

It's just the leverage Keith needs, and he grins.

Shiro's eyes go wide, and then narrow—he's fast, but Keith's faster.

Shiro already has his leg lifted halfway, so it's nothing to go the extra distance, his knee flying at Shiro's chin. It's a mean hit, but he wants him to get serious and that's the fastest way to do it.

It connects. Shiro rips his head back, his grip on the blade loosening. Keith spins out of his hold and right around his back, setting the edge of the blade against his neck.

 _Gotcha_ , he thinks.

Shiro turns enough to catch his eye and grin, and then drops straight down, sweeping a leg out, aiming for Keith feet.

It works. Keith stumbles back a step and Shiro is _on_ him. Again, he brings up the blade as a last ditch defense, but this time Shiro is serious. Every hit against it rattles up his arm, until he's feeling it in his shoulders and down his spine, muscles screaming. It's worth it, for the look on Shiro's face—he's enjoying this as much as Keith is, maybe more.

 _Definitely_ more.

A lucky blow with his non-lethal arm has Keith's head snapping to the side, the tang of blood sharp and instantaneous. He gets some distance between them, tongues at the blood on his teeth. Shiro raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't look sorry. _Good_.

He doesn't block Keith's next hit, grabbing the blade again, using it to pull Keith in close this time. He's not telegraphing anymore, and this isn’t the same man Keith fought in the Garrison gyms—he has no idea what Shiro's next move is.

 _Champion_ , echoes in his mind. Shiro is all speed, raw power, and wicked cunning. It sends a thrill up Keith's spine. This is exactly what he wanted, Shiro close, and grinning, and wild.

Keith returns the look; Shiro’s first mistake is thinking Keith won’t let go of the blade. He learned that lesson once, and it’s nothing to let the hilt slip through his fingers, to curl them and aim a hit right at his face—it’s a feint, mostly, but Shiro falls for it and jerks back, throwing the blade aside, his arm fading back to bare metal in the same motion.

The movement forces Shiro to take an involuntary step back, and Keith’s got him on the defensive, finally.

He aims a kick for his chest, because minus a sword all he’s really got over Shiro is speed and legs. It connects, hard, right against his sternum. Shiro grab his leg, but he’s too far off balance to leverage it into anything, and it’s the second time he’s made the mistake of doing Keith’s work for him.

Keith moves in close—Shiro’s eyes go wide, but he’s too slow to avoid the knee to his chest, and they both go down, hard. It's a full body tackle that knocks the breath out of Shiro, giving Keith enough time to kick his leg free of the grip Shiro has on it and pin him in a straddle across his chest.

Shiro’s arms are still a problem. In the scrabble, he gets a knee over one, but even his full weight can’t pin the other—his mistake, again, to forget the sheer mass of muscle Shiro has on him. He couldn’t win a wrestling match at the Garrison—there’s no way he’s going to win one now.

Shiro blinks up at him, still breathless. “You’re good,” he huffs.

Keith blushes, despite himself, and tries to stop himself from focusing on the mass of dark cloth and muscle under his legs and crotch, because that's the last thing he needs. It doesn't work, and Shiro seizes on his hesitation, flipping their positions in one smooth roll.

Suddenly, Keith is the one pinned on his back, but the difference is that Shiro’s got more than enough weight to back up it up. One of his legs is up over Shiro’s arm, almost over his shoulder; it’s awkward, at best, and he can almost get the crook of his knee wrapped around Shiro’s neck, but the bend in his back is _agonizing_.

His involuntary grunt of pain has Shiro backing off, an apology in his eyes—

Keith takes advantage. He pulls his other leg up so he’s got one around Shiro’s ribs and the other around his neck. It’s an impasse; there’s no way to win from this position, but there’s no way to lose. Both his arms are pinned under Shiro’s, but he’s got him held between his thighs, too distant to force a yield.

He doesn't want to give in. It's selfish, but all of a sudden that nagging sense of loss is front and center. Shiro is hot and heavy between his legs, solid, and somehow it feels like this is as close as they'll ever get; once he pulls away, it's over.

But Shiro isn't moving.

They're both still trying to catch their breath. Keith can feel Shiro's chest expand and contract, right against his thighs, and it's going to get embarrassing if one of them doesn't give some ground—he flexes against the hands on his forearms but Shiro presses down with renewed strength, not giving an inch. There's no way he doesn't notice the hardness against his chest when he shifts, but there's literally no way for Keith to hide it in this position.

Eye contact has never been awkward between them, but it is now, because Shiro’s gaze is intense despite the flush high on his cheeks. Keith’s too distracted by the heat rising in his own face to interpret what that expression _means_ —

When Shiro speaks, it takes them both by surprise.

"I feel like I'm losing you," he says, breathless and resigned.

But—it's the wrong way around. He's lost and lost and lost Shiro, dragged him back and hunted him down and fought for him—Shiro's worried? He's _terrified_.

Before he can say that, before he can full think it, Shiro "I don't want to lose you," Shiro says, and presses forward into the v of his legs, heedless of the fact Keith is painfully hard.

He tries to stifle his moan at the contact, but fails—it doesn't matter.

Shiro dips his head catches the sound in an open-mouthed kiss. It's all desperation, like he's putting everything he has into it, like he thinks it's his only shot, but Keith's been imagining this since the first time Shiro pinned him to the floor at the Garrison.

For a moment, for that reason, he isn't sure it's real, but the lips against his are insistent and dry. He opens under them without thinking, angling into it, into the dragging scrape of teeth against his bottom lip. It tastes like blood, but he's not sure whose. Shiro's white bangs are sweat damp against his cheek and the angle of their bodies is too awkward to be comfortable, but it's perfect. He moans again without meaning to. Shiro releases his arms, finally, and buries his hands in Keith's hair, pulling it out of its tie and angling his head how he wants it, until they're both sloppy and have to part to just to breathe.

They don't move far. Shiro turns his head an inch to the side, breathing hard against Keith's cheek.

It's such a shock he can't quite convince himself it's not an accident, somehow—can't convince himself that Shiro isn't going to pull away and apologize and leave him there on the floor, hard and panting. His hands are still dead weight on the floor where Shiro had them pinned. It seems like a good idea to raise one, lay it on the back of Shiro's head, push his fingers into Shiro's hair.

Shiro tenses, takes a sharp breath. "Keith—"

This is it, he tells himself, bracing for the blow. This is the apology, the end, and he really is going to lose him all over again.

But he has it wrong.

"—is this ok?" Shiro asks instead, so hopeful it hurts.

Keith nods against his cheek, and pulls him in for another kiss, keeping it sweet, even as Shiro licks into his mouth, still hungry and desperate.

He pulls Shiro's head back, just far enough to look into his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, but he blinks and meets Keith's gaze.

"You're not going to lose me," Keith says into the space between them.

Shiro falls forward, pushing his face against Keith's neck. He doesn't say anything, but he smiles against the sweat and bare skin there.

It's all the answer he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> my dog, watching me test out these moves to make sure they're humanly possible: pathetic
> 
> Come ask me for pining sheith on [tumblr](http://arahir.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/arahir)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [get a little closer, let fold by arahir [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12644139) by [Rhea314 (Rhea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Rhea314)




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